The Ghost
by melpomenewrites
Summary: A part of him had known for months that Cole must know. It simply didn't make sense for him to be able to prod at every little bruise or hurt in Skyhold except this one; the one that never left his mind, not even in sleep. Still, sound of the name knocked the breath from his lungs as surely as if he'd had no warning at all. Or, Cole and Blackwall have a nice little chat.


Blackwall shut the door to the barn and stuck a hand in his pocket to check that the crumpled paper was still there. Was it unaccountable good fortune, he wondered, that had caused Leliana's runner to trip over an abandoned mop bucket and spill her sheaf of reports at his feet; or, was it the old curse? As he had ducked out of the great hall under whatever flimsy pretext had come to his lips he could hear Lady Vivienne's voice ringing out in laughter after him.

"Why Warden Blackwall, you look as if you've seen a ghost."

And maybe he had at that. He double checked that he was alone before he pulled the note from his pocket. Smoothing it with a trembling hand he read the it again. Maybe, he hoped, he had misunderstood. However, the crisp print of the agent's handwriting was unchanged. Cyril Mornay to be executed for his role in the Callier massacre in one week's time in Val Royeaux, it read. Ghosts indeed.

Before he could even begin to puzzle out what to do about the letter the horse beside him nickered causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. He looked up with a start and there was Cole, palm outstretched with an apple for the horse. The horse took the apple with a noisy bite and Cole stroked its muzzle affectionately.

"I like horses." He said. "They have simple wants, a simple song. They're easy to listen to."

He looked up, fixing his odd, penetrating gaze on Blackwall.

"You are harder."

Blackwall's heartbeat quickened. He broke the boy's gaze and that walked sharply over to the workbench. He tried to clear his head, to think of something‒ anything else. But, when he looked up Cole was already there. He picked up one of the small carving knives, turning it over in his pale hands. Blackwall suddenly remembered something Lady Vivienne had called the boy. The Ghost of the Spire. Murderer. Maybe that was it, he mused. The boy had seen into his head and come to kill him. (Finally, a small voice in his head whispered in response.) But Cole didn't move any closer. He just cocked his head that odd way of his; like the myna bird that could recite poetry Blackwall had once seen in a noble's parlor.

"It's an old game." Cole said softly. "Her mother taught her. She picks up the wood, knows how to hold the knife but fingers feign fumbling. Catches your eyes with hers. Voice lilting, light as balsa, 'Show me.' She says. Your fingers shape her fingers, guiding gently. Tucks her head just so to look up through her lashes. A move practiced until it looks like an accident. But you draw back, eyes averted and she feels foolish, flat, flushed with failure.

Cole's head snapped up to face his again.

"You wanted to kiss her too. Why didn't you?"

Blackwall's eyes flicked to the corner of the table where the small, slightly lumpy wooden nug that the inquisitor had carved sat and he let out a ragged breath. Just Cole's usual nonsense. Thank the Maker.

"I don't know Cole." He answered wearily. "Why don't you go ask Varric? He's supposed to be the expert on that sort of thing. Besides, isn't he supposed to be teaching you to be less like, well, whatever it is you're like now?"

"No." Cole's voice was more decisive than Blackwall could recall hearing it. He shook his head like he was trying to shake off something that was stuck to him "No, that was the wrong thread. They're all twisted‒ tied tight in a tangle. I pulled the wrong one. Let me try again. Please."

The boy's words had a surprisingly plaintive quality and Blackwall felt his initial harsher reply die on his tongue.

"No. No, Cole‒ I...I appreciate it is what you're trying to do but not everything can be fixed. You can't untangle a lifetime of mistakes just by wanting to. If you're going to be human now you have to accept that."

Cole was quiet for a long moment before responding.

"Yes." He said finally. "Like the matted fur that pulls at the dog's skin however it tries to move. Can't leave, everyone will know, _she'll_ know. Can't stay. Blackwall would never have stayed for this long. No one else can die for my worthless hide. Should have done it years ago, you miserable bastard. Would have saved everyone a lot of trouble." He paused again. "I don't know how to unknot it. I'm sorry Thom."

A part of him had known for months that Cole must know. It simply didn't make sense for him to be able to prod at every little bruise or hurt in Skyhold except this one. The one that never left his mind, not even in sleep. Still, sound of the name knocked the breath from his lungs as surely as if he'd had no warning at all. When he finally spoke the words sounded distant; as if they were coming from someone else's mouth.

"You know then."

"Yes. It's very loud."

He looked from Cole's face to his hand where he still held the small carving knife.

"Have you come to kill me then, like those mages at the spire?"

The boy looked vaguely hurt and shook his head.

"No, that was before. I didn't know what I was then. Everything was too loud, I couldn't understand. I heard pain and I wanted to help. I wanted to make it stop. Now I know I was wrong. It was a simple solution but people aren't simple. A horse can't understand why it suffers; kinder to kill it when its leg is broken. But the mages weren't horses. You are not a horse."

"I see." He said, although in truth his mind still felt dizzy and he had trouble following Cole's metaphor.

"It's a festering wound," Cole continued as if he hadn't heard him, "Spreading poison to the blood. A knife to the throat ends the pain; swiftly, kindly, but finally. A knife can do other things too though. It can lance the wound. Make a path for the poison to pass. It will hurt much more, and for a long time‒ but you might live."

Blackwall tried to swallow but his mouth had gone dry as parchment.

"Odds are you die anyway," He replied, "But slower. I've seen it in the field dozens of times."

"Yes." Cole said flatly. "I've seen it too. But you've always been lucky‒ or, unlucky. It's muddled in your head. You used to think it was good luck that kept you alive; now you think it's a curse. You thought it when you saw the letter."

"The wisdom of age." He said dryly.

"No," Cole said. "You think that it was bad luck that you lived and the other Blackwall died. A mistake. His mouth moves but there are no words at the end. Blood flowing from his lips like another dying fish on the shore." Cole shook his head. "But that's not what _he_ thought. Winds smells like salt and trees. Like the house in Cumberland across the Waking Sea. Pale sunlight breaks through the clouds. Never thought I'd die in sun. It wasn't bad luck, he was happy at the end."

The boy placed the knife back on the table and turned to leave. He pushed open the barn door and turned back to face Blackwall but his expression inscrutable in the sudden brightness of the afternoon sunlight that poured in around him.

"It wasn't luck about the letter either. I left the bucket where her feet would find it. There is still time to cut the knots, if you want to."


End file.
